IN-BETWEEN.

Updated: Apr 30

A COVID project. To write a word every day of lockdown in response or in union with performance by Mariana Reyna Lorenzano.


PLAY.

A fondle, a flame, a titillation, a rub, a moment, a cherished embrace, a roll, a bite, a push, a shove, a conflict, a time, a wink, a lick, a hoping that this is ok with you blink, a rumble, a burst, a yell, a tumble, a trial. Here I wonder what will be and whether I'm just on my own, or rather in this with you, for this second. Something about wonder and whether we are feeling the benefits of together, oxytocin release, endorphin overdrive: of sweat upon sweat, or perhaps flesh upon flesh, maybe even the bubble of noise naked bodies make when they roll about on top of one another: I remember the first time I heard that during foreplay. I laughed too much and apologised it away. Now I ignore it and hope it will happen again, because maybe it means we're doing it right, right? Flatulent explosion catastrophized into something other, something not wrong, something we are doing to get strong, something that upon these sheets we have nothing to be ashamed of.

BOUND.

A web, a thread, a sticky lingering mesh, a frozen in time, a stopping of breath, a subtle indecision, a slow death, a hot, hot breath, a closeness, a stubbornness, a what the fuck is this mess? Escape impossible, any sudden movement will leave me even more stuck inside this stickiness, trapped; lingering. Shortness of fresh air through cavities so desperate to move in these times, in this moment. And so I wait. And then I, head first, held high, bury myself in what only I find. Trying hard, so fucking hard to shake this off, to stick one arm out of this device, to sleep naked at night would be nice. To feel the air on my chest, the one I desire, not the one which ignites incremental heaps of shame, repeatedly irritating every single thought of you.

DRAMA.

A malaise brews, a stark difference in taste, a disrupt, a distance, a terrifying instant, a newly adjusted bubble, a tightly wound stumble in the dark, a jump, a bump, a lump, a holding, a telling, a crying, a distancing in the park. I love, I hate, I wonder, I stutter, I live. A pin prick of a lick can change everything and then within a flick of this switch, gone. See how fragile this everything is, this take it for granted solid thing is. And it feels all giddy, light and spinny, nimble, dextrous, all-encompassing textures and then not, nothing. It feels as though it will never be caught, never taught, never change or behave, it feels as though it gives zero fucks, lying in wait while the others disrupt and then once awake, there it is again. That knowing feeling in between sticky legs, every dream will contain. That lust so full to the brim with pain, so hardened by rejection, dogmatic acceptance a thing to keep at a distance. So that now we bury ourselves; two meters, two miles feels too far away.


IDLE.

A growing, a niggling, a disperse, a dysphoria, a realisation, a disbelief, a hundred million negative things, a sweet release, a dystopic clinging, a hardened being, a liberated feeling of skin connecting. I don't think I'll ever manage to understand how quickly this body can crash land, knowing full well that in time, it will rearrange, it will readjust, it will prise itself from out of the dust. I don't think I want to understand that is, just why or even how it needs to be held, to be fought for or even taught that it has more value than it ever thought. So I cower in the darkness, here for an eternity. Hoping that one day the cogs will turn on how you perceive the binary. How you understand the desperate impingement on fluidity and how I see it so completely differently. Lay yourself down, listen to your words, listen to the way with every single micro-aggression you take something away from me.


UNDER.

A siege, a relief, a delight, a disbelief, a complex set of emotions set into a spiral of release, a questioning, an understanding, a night time walk on emptied out streets, an infrared alert, an early morning stalk on the marshes, a ripping from normality, a weighted glare at this stark new reality, a missing, a grief. Under the watchful stare, under the chinook imbuing despair, under the stairs. To those minutes that would turn into hours, frozen in the shadows. Two toy metal cars grabbed in haste or maybe just the grouting in the tiles for distraction, the sheen of each one traced with salty tears of escape. What exactly I was running from I don't remember now. Maybe the echo, the sound of voices raised to scream out loud. But I'll never forget wanting to be found, never forget counting down from one hundred, never forget who would inevitably find me on the ground, the arms that would wrap and the nose that would nuzzle my body into a bundle. Asking me to stop this silliness or to cry a little bit less. Hiding has always been second nature it seems, it's the coming out that rips.

UNKNOWN.

A bitter taste, a crumpled face, a beat that sets this body to a different pace, a smoothness, a softness, a curving, a swerving, a; 'Fuck it! Let's have another drink then!', a this is how it's going to feel for the rest of time babe, a useless meme, a distant dream, a fearmongering scream into a future that feels unknown. We two bodies live here now; unapologetic morning drags on our fags in this 4 by 4 meter patch of concrete, broken hearted: sorting chores, cleaning floors, swapping grindr and hinge advice. And I never knew, I never knew this version of him. I never knew how we could quietly go about our routine a year in. Carrying fragments of our day in beautifully choreographed ways: I take the rubbish out while he plants seeds and in between the weeds, in between the day to day, we make our way. Gently lifting one another when we fall, carefully embracing one another in the aftermath of sickening phone calls. We survive this day, happy, content to be alive in this way, for now.


SWEAT.

A roughened surface, a smooth paving stone, a slight gradient, a mild undertone of self-loathing, a distant memory that felt quite scathing, a reminder set, an alarm built into circadian rhythm distracts from latent depression. Pillows, breath, sheets, duvet clinging to swollen sleep. One sock removed in heat. And yet no memory will compete with last night's defeat. If you were here in between the sheets, I would roll my body closer. Four legs, four arms, two faces. The darkened crease of skin upon skin defining nothing, holding so tight to defy Zeus's power. Here; bodies melt, sweat merges and every fluid shared throws caution to the wind of desire. For, spirits will find; they have their way; a destiny some will say; of butting heads so that on repeat it may feel less not more and yet every new day brings them closer to infinite bliss. And so to the cold side of the bed I will turn again, waiting in vain, for a lover who cuts her nose to spite nothing other than lost intimacy.


RIP.

A jolt, a jut, a push, a spin, a digging in, a tailspin, a nudge, a wedge, a fuck off, a seriously will you just fuck off for a minute, a just leave me alone, a I can hear that really neggy undertone you seem to be taking all the time, a did you even ask if I wanted some wine? When all is said and done we have far less time for the complex array of refractions heard in the well intentioned voice. The up, the down, the sometimes sideways round. And what it means is, what it means is...we are human. So that in this moment or the next we will be just who we are and sometimes, just sometimes; we can't help that, slow it down, stop it or rearrange it. Stark, the crisp horizon of change, the one that melts from pink to blue and back to orange and red again. So that midmorning is that time that fills me with dread. The greyness of the in between, drenched in caffeine. That point in time when there is neither ease nor freedom, just a whole load of chores and no one else to do them. Faced with desperation, this is the moment of arrival. Here is where we choose our method of survival: to be good, gentle and kind or to chastise and demonise. How I talk to myself plateaus until there is no more mess in the undergrowth.


OUTLINES.

A river runs through, a river full of green, a river with multiple ripples in between, a river wallows, a river separates, a river confluences, a river roams, a river leaves me over here and you over there, a river seems fairly easy to cross except it would involve potentially getting naked and that's not going to happen any time soon, a river leaves me stranded. It would be pathetically easy to jump high, or even to run at it really fucking fast, blast through with my arms and my legs pumped, face contorted and maybe even holding my breath. For now, I'll just look at it. Teasing, tempting, manipulating and then stopping just before the boundary. The edge cajoles the spirit, the mind, the body longs for and yet this is as far as it will go. And there's something about the salivating presence of that freedom, that call, that knowing sensation to take all this hatred away. Other people have done it, you'll say, and yet this day is not the day. This gentle moment shall be slathered in something other, something far less rousing.

ISLAND.

A deja-vu, a tete a tete, a this will silently help me fret away a couple of hours, a shower, a wank, a movement that will drain the tank, a listening in, a broken wing, a fucking let me get out of this internal mayhem, a rhythm, a pause, a moment of course. Of course, I wanted to disappear so I sat there for hours. Contemplating ramming into flowers, into rivers and streams, driving to the end of a dream, listening to voices float over me. All of this will one day be a memory, picking up glass like a shattered pillow, screaming into the wild and I know, I know that maybe I seem a little untethered to you. I fucking feel it, but in all honesty, there are some days I would do anything to be the sky. To be able to fall and fly, to be able to carve out every emotion with a single glance of the eye. There are days when all I want is alone. To be alone without.

FRAGMENT.

A night terror.

Huh?

Anxiety dream. You don't mean?

Wait. Not again.

I am suspended here. Did I just spend a whole day on the internet?

What. Me? High?

My trans body: feels. Ugly. It woke me up. Shorts rucked around hips that two weeks ago. Weren't an issue. My trans body feels. Different.

Fat deposits create a panic attack so well known.

In the dead of night when distractions have flown. And all that worry.